


Love with a criminal

by Roxie Ann (pluvial_poetry)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Community: kink_bingo, Danger, Fingerfucking, M/M, Plot What Plot, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-27
Updated: 2012-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-30 04:43:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluvial_poetry/pseuds/Roxie%20Ann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's in danger, but luckily he doesn't mind a few scars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love with a criminal

**Author's Note:**

> I may have seen **Lethal Weapon 3** a few too many times at a formative age.

Arthur concentrates on stemming the bleeding, gauze pressed lightly against the wound, his fingers gone sticky with blood. He works quickly and competently, washing out the wound, disinfecting the area. It's something he's had some practice with, cleaning up other people's messes. 

"Hold still, Eames," he orders and he grabs at Eames' chin, forcing him to tilt his head up toward the light. From here he can see the pulse point in Eames' throat jumping. It'd been another near miss in a series of close calls. Arthur's adrenaline rush hasn't quite faded yet either.

Eames shrugs away, a rolling motion that stretches the cloth of his navy oxford tight around the broad width of his shoulders, quirking an impatient eyebrow at Arthur. "As tender as your mercies are, Arthur, it's just a scratch." 

And he's right, the edges of the wound are still slowly seeping, but it's nothing to worry about. "Not your first one either. What is that, a tire iron?" Arthur asks, referring to the jagged line of a scar that curls around the back of Eames' skull. He catches himself sliding his fingers through Eames hair, pulling away and turning on the water in the sink, his reflection in the mirror going a little pink.

"Candelabra, actually. Not my finest moment." That probably meant it happened some time before the start of his current illustrious life of crime. Arthur can't imagine Eames, maybe 22, boosting cars and lifting wallets, baby-faced and lean, unmarked. Not when he's faced with the man Eames is today. 

"And you?" Eames has hopped down from his seat on the bathroom counter and is nodding over at where Arthur is scrubbing the blood off of his hands. Where Arthur's sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, a thin scar bisects his forearm. And Arthur is competitive by nature, the byproduct of growing up with four brothers, classic middle child syndrome. He likes to win.

"That? That's a real wound. 12 inch dagger," he says as he dries his hands. "He got me here, and here." And he shoves his sleeves up as far as they'll go to show Eames the scar lining his triceps muscle. He'd gotten them during a mugging by someone who'd had no idea who Arthur was or what was in the briefcase he'd been carrying. Arthur had managed to put him down with no more than the two cuts. Arthur's pulse starts to thrum just thinking about it.

"Hmm…” Eames lifts up his left hand, revealing a still pink and shiny new scar that circumnavigates the whole of his thumb, down into the meat of his palm. “Butcher's knife. Almost severed my thumb." 

The way Arthur had heard it, Eames had been collateral damage in a lover's spat between Elgin and Umani. He didn't know who had vetted the job for Eames, because whoever it was had put Eames in the line of fire. Anyone who'd ever met Elgin before could have told him that the man was completely certifiable. 

"Real enough for you?" Eames asks, because he will always rise to a challenge. Arthur hesitates, distracted by wondering how it feels, the rough points of Eames' hand broken up by the smooth line of scar. His mouth goes dry.

"Not bad," he manages to say. But he has a better one. He untucks his shirt from his pants, ignoring the sudden curve to Eames' mouth, and lifts it up high enough in the back that when Arthur turns around Eames can see the scar that traverses his waistline. 

"Machete. Took 49 stitches." The guy got lucky with the machete when Arthur's back was turned. You'd think that trading in Somnacin would go easier than your typical drug deal, but that isn't always the case. 

Eames tilts his head consideringly. "Did it? Seems a bit much for such a small wound." 

Arthur rolls his eyes. "You have a bigger one?" Eames laughs but leaves the obvious joke unsaid. 

"Perhaps not bigger,” he allows. “But more. Four .44s." He untucks his own shirt from his pants, raises up the front enough to show off a soft belly, and the hard points of his nipples. Eames is still smiling a little, heat in his eyes. It's an instant jolt to Arthur's system, a feedback loop of excitement. Eames thumbs over one of the bullet holes, and explains, "That one grazed my liver. I was septic, in hospital for weeks."

"Berlin, right?" Arthur asks, and Eames nods, ruefully. If the rumors are true, that whole job had been a clusterfuck and Eames was lucky to have made it out alive. But Arthur can still beat that. 

"I have a .38. Through and through." Arthur says as he unbuttons his shirt, tossing it aside to show off the bullet hole on his back, turning to show the exit wound on his chest. When Mal introduced him to Dom for the first time, she called Arthur the kind of man who would take a bullet for a friend. It took years before Dom realized that she'd meant that literally. "Another inch lower and we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Eames eyes are skimming down the flat planes of Arthur's abdomen. He licks his lips, says, "I have one of those as well." And he unbuckles his belt. 

Arthur knows the danger here, he thinks as he watches Eames push his pants down to his knees, his dick half-hard and obvious against the soft cotton of his boxer-briefs. He's always known. It's Eames, so despite everything - the lines of curling tattoos at the open neck of his shirt, the impressive width of his thighs, his mouth, and yes, the scars - it's a risk. It will complicate things on the job, it will be a distraction. 

But if he's going to be honest with himself, Arthur likes the risk. He's a criminal. That's how he lives his life. He could die tomorrow. He could have died today. He can take the scars. But he'd rather not have regrets.

He throws himself at Eames, slamming him back against the counter, their mouths clashing together, off-center and messy. Eames gives back as good as he gets, using his teeth on Arthur's bottom lip, fingers tight on Arthur's biceps. And if it hurts a little, it only makes Arthur press in closer. 

They struggle out of the rest of their clothes, grappling close, getting in each other's way more often then not, distracting each other with over-excited, wandering hands and bruising kisses. Eames' dick is red and wet, his balls full and heavy, eager for Arthur's touch. Arthur digs his thumb into the newly visible bullet wound on Eames' hip instead, relishing the way Eames jerks and curses. 

Eames grips at the hair at the back of Arthur's neck, his hand suggesting a direction, heavy and unsubtle. Arthur goes to his knees and opens his mouth as Eames guides his head, bringing Arthur forward onto his dick. "Arthur..." Eames sighs his name, long and drawn-out.

Arthur slows it down then, taking his time sucking and stroking at Eames' cock, down and back up the shaft. He plays with Eames' foreskin, pushing it back with his mouth to lick at the head, letting precome trickle out over his tongue. He loves doing this, loves the way Eames' control eventually breaks down, as Arthur works him over with his mouth. The sharp, aborted jerking of his hips as he fights to stay in control before giving in, grinding into Arthur's throat, selfish and needy. 

Arthur takes it, the burn in his jaw and throat, breathless and dizzy as he tries to get enough air to his lungs through his nose. And then Eames is groaning, shoving in deep. Arthur can't remember the last time he let someone come in his mouth. But the taste of it is familiar, bitter salt, thick and warm on his tongue.

"You're good at that." Eames says, gasping a little as his cock, tender now that he's come, slips out of Arthur's mouth.

Arthur leans his forehead against Eames' hip, kissing at the scar there, smirking a little. "Thanks."

"What would you like?" Eames asks, his left-hand thumb slipping over Arthur's bottom lip, obviously delighting in how swollen and wet it is. Arthur licks out, wraps his tongue around the base of it, tasting the scar there, before drawing back. 

"Your hand," he decides, and lets Eames help him to his feet. His cock full and aching, and all Arthur can do is surrender to its demands.

Eames' hand on his dick is dry and callused as he begins to stroke him off. He keeps his grip light and loose, pulling back as Arthur thrusts up into it, chuckling as Arthur makes a little choked out, helpless noise. 

"Hold on," he murmurs, and then he's reaching back to rummage through Arthur's bag on the counter. Of course Eames had noticed that Arthur had lube in his first aid kit. Arthur is shaking by the time Eames wets his fingers, and reaches for him again, cupping his ass, fingers tracing up and over his hole. Because Eames is fucking tease. Circling there, again and again, pressing in with just the tip of his finger, retreating again even as Arthur clenches around him, trying to draw him all the way in. Arthur doesn't know how long he can stand it, he's so hard already, so ready to come. Craving that high. He wants Eames to give it to him.

His cock is rubbing up against his stomach, damp and sticky as Arthur wraps a hand around it, touching himself in quick, firm strokes. Eames has a finger inside him, all the way past the second knuckle now, fucking him with it, slow and steady, each brush past Arthur's prostate quaking him. He's trembling and his heart is pounding, and he needs more. When Eames works a second inside of him, Arthur shoves back against it, taking it in all the way, deep and fast. Eames makes a harsh noise, and even though it's too soon for him to get hard again, his cock twitches with interest.

And maybe that's what sends Arthur over the edge. His balls go tight so fast he can barely draw breath and he comes in his hand, Eames' fingers thrusting inside of him, dragging the orgasm out of him, until it feels like it won't ever stop, messy and overwhelming and perfect and he doesn't know how he'll want anything else ever again.

_Right_ , he thinks. _This could be dangerous_.

He leans into Eames after, lets him support his weight, pet him a little as he comes down. Eames sets his mouth over the scar on Arthur's chest, sucking and biting at it as Arthur squirms weakly and pants against him. "You like that?" Eames asks, voice rough and low.

"I do," Arthur says, and he means it in more ways than one.

Yeah, he likes the scars. They remind him that he still has a life to live.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fic that "inspired" [You make the knife feel good](http://archiveofourown.org/works/203689). Or at least, that fic ran away with me while I was trying to write this one. Oh, well. Double the scar porn, double the fun.


End file.
